


Dubiety

by secrtdoor



Series: Estrangement Trilogy [2]
Category: Arctic Monkeys, Last Shadow Puppets
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-30
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-03 06:23:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8700889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secrtdoor/pseuds/secrtdoor
Summary: A sequel to my first fic, Estrangement, and a second part of a trilogy, it continues telling the story of Alex Turner who quit his musical career shortly after the end of Suck It And See tour due to a creative crisis, moved to London and found work at a tiny bookstore. But an unexpected job offer could make him choose between his passion and a peaceful life outside the spotlight that Alex maintained for more than four years.





	1. Chapter 1

As soon as the train got out of London with its familiar dull streets, constantly crowded, sinking in lethargy and covered in water, all credit for it going to the wet, nasty hybrid of rain and snow, so common in certain areas of Britain, Alex's breaths became steadier and less shallow. He moved closer to the window, pressed his forehead against it and watched his breath create a little spot on it that rushed to melt and turn into water as soon as he stopped. Crossing the distance between the city and his destination was supposed to take about an hour, easier to measure in book pages or music tracks. Alex sheltered himself with a papercover of one of his favourite novels and, as his eyes moved from line to line, thought about things that happened in the past couple months.

He went home for Christmas and had stayed there, given a kind permission from Julie, until the day after his birthday, which was meant to be a calm, happy couple of weeks. But shortly after arrival it became clear that his parents were eager to discuss something with him, a certain issue that bugged them, and a cloud of awkwardness hovered above every conversation.

Even though years have passed since Alex left Los Angeles in order to have a fresh start and alter his lifestyle, there were still people who wanted to know the details, calling restlessly, not quite as often now as before, but with reawakened enthusiasm during holidays. It was only logical to assume that a loving son was ought to visit his family and, as a good tradition of sorts, his father plugged all of the phones out, keeping only the cells on in case of emergency and to receive greetings from friends and relatives.

'Is it another journalist, more persistent than the rest, searching for some kind of sensation?'

Alex was decorating the Christmas tree, carefully picking up the shiny balls, beautiful yet fragile, and fixing them on the branches. An old sweater, stretched on the sleeves, a white T-shirt underneath that stuck out every time he leaned forward and a pair of sweatpants, comfortable yet fairly unappealing, were his regular uniform during those visits. He couldn't get used to his hair length after a recent haircut and constantly tried to brush the long ends behind his ears, forgetting about their absence.

'No, sweetheart, that we know how to deal with. It was someone... different.'

He stepped back, observing the product of his work; the red and blue balls, the tiny angels and snowflakes, a few Santa Clauses, and a whole lot of lights, waiting to be added in the very end, still lying at the bottom of a dusty cardboard box. His mother was standing in the doorway, smiling quietly and waiting for his response, and Alex wondered what he looked like from the side, a grown-up man in worn out clothes, more suitable for a teenager, who had been jumping around that poor tree for almost two hours.

'Different how?'

'His occupation. That man said that he's a teacher, and there was a job offer that he wanted to discuss with you, in case you were coming to Sheffield. Maybe, you should call back.'

The sun found a gap between the heavy grey clouds and the light, reflected from the window, caught Alex off guard and blinded him for a moment. With green and red spots spinning in front of his eyes he blinked and sighed, closed the book and put it in the bag, pulled the strap, fixed his scarf, stood up and started walking towards the exit. And as he moved, counting his steps, still slightly disoriented, the views of those who were still occupying the seats got much better, with the stormy blue sea rumbling in the distance.


	2. Chapter 2

The town was small, lazily opening its eyes to the first uncertain rays of sunshine that burst through the clouds, lifting a heavy weight off the horizon's shoulders. The best word to describe is was "stuck", tied by nostalgia, lack of enthusiasm, everlasting weekends, everyone knowing everyone, rumours, circulating for years, and sand, the one that beaches and time were both made of. But, after all, it was appealingly quiet, visited once almost three years ago by a recommendation of a friend, who already became nothing but a memory, and revisited again, in a moment of uncertainty, led there by boredom and fear of staying alone with his thoughts.

Apparently, normal people shook their sadness off by spending a night in a pub with a few friends, drinking the troubles away. But ever since Alex moved back to London, he had kept a promise to maintain his mind's clarity intact under any circumstances and to never drink a beverage stronger than coffee. That kind of abstinence could've seemed silly and childish for an adult man, but after almost slipping down on a few occasions, almost seeking temporary oblivion in arms of two greatest temptations - drugs and alcohol, Alex couldn't rely upon himself anymore. And by the time the mental cage of his writer's block finally opened, even though there was a good reason, he didn't want to celebrate it with a glass or two anymore. Besides, drinking alone was fairly pathetic.

It was early, and since most of the town's residents were currently still sleeping or already halfway to London, in a little café right across from the beach he was almost on his own, with the exception of a waitress, who was napping a few tables away. Julie hired a substitute for him, an extremely polite girl, first year student in desperate need of money, who also happened to love books and major in English literature, that very course that Alex neglected twelve years ago for a band that, in return, brought him money, fame and... happiness? Now his weekends felt painfully meaningless and vacant, so he had to find a way to fill that gigantic gap somehow, and this town became a good buddy of his after their re-introduction in January, shortly after his arrival from Sheffield.

There were particular subjects they never discussed, questions that were never asked out loud and answers that weren't given to the party that replaced curiosity with common sense and good manners. For Alex it was hard to hold back the explanation of all decisions made in the last few years, but deep down he knew that it didn't really matter as long as he was content and visibly happy, and he didn't have to lie about neither of these. Finding himself in a place where solitude was a choice wasn't exactly strange because he missed it. The opportunity not to be watched, observed, judged, whispered behind, put out in the spotlight like a museum exhibit and expected to enjoy it - that's what Alex desired most, and received, at last, but his parents couldn't relate and they were worried still.

One strange call. Nothing important, just an unusually reasonable voice that obviously stood out of the crowd of obsessed, annoying, disrespectful journalists, the worst kind who even now just didn't want to stand back and let him live in peace.

'A teacher with a job offer? I'm afraid he might have gotten the wrong number, mom. That's not my specialty.'

A Christmas tree without Christmas lights was never going to be festive enough. He looked at it, thinking about a dozen things simultaneously, but they were all gently pushed out by this stupid, childish idea, and it made Alex laugh, completely inappropriately yet genuinely.

'You could've just talked to him, a simple phone call, and... Alexander! What's so funny about this?'

'I'm sorry, mom, it's just... I'll think about it, alright? Now could you pass me the lights, please, before I've fallen off this ladder?'

A large sip of coffee and a few sentences written in an old notebook that he bought, being in a weird mood, during his very first week back in England, because it reminded him of something, a ghost of a memory of sorts. The waitress stood up and looked at Alex, almost surprised by the fact of his presence, frowned and went somewhere in the back. On the shore, covered in a thin layer of wet, slowly melting snow, there was no one but rare seagulls and nothing but their own shadows, reflecting in the light.


	3. Chapter 3

"Only now I can finally admit that there's been something missing in my life, something that I couldn't put in words until, very recently, it woke me up in the middle of the night, got a hold of my body and made me write again. Since the very first resurrection of my talents, although I'd rather call them abilities, I've covered endless amounts of surfaces with words, starting from old magazines and ending with wallpapers that were unlucky enough to be located above my bed. But inspiration came and went away so unpredictably, and I was wise enough to buy a proper notebook during one of my periods of calmness, but after that there wasn't much to write in it for my mind must have gotten worn out by its own inconsistency.

All the times before I've treated it quite recklessly, wasting away the precious moments of productivity, taking them for granted. The life that I managed to build back here, in England, was better than I expected it to be. It's easy to look back now that my struggles are over, to be condescending from the top of my new-found creativity, but I still remember how irate I was four years ago, how that emptiness drove me mad. I don't know why things are granted to us when we no longer seek them, but I had a unique pleasure of proving that principle work, to become a living example of it. 

Even if the world, as it was, descended underground, vanished completely, it wouldn't have shaken me one bit, concerned me in the slightest. I was angry and exhausted of my own anger, and then it burnt out. And led me here.

The waitress came back with a big blue cup of something that, if I had to make a guess, looks like coffee. She has a duplicate, almost an identical copy, that sometimes takes her place. It's not the physical resemblance that I'm trying to describe, but the feeling that gently taps me on the shoulder with an invisible hand. I can feel their despair washing over me, falling like rain, generously and ruthlessly. They don't want to be here, the same way I didn't want to be in the spotlight anymore. It should be much harder to live in denial, but that would defy the very concept itself, wouldn't it?

I miss having a purpose to my writing, sharing what I do best with those who understand it or, at least, want to understand it. I'm just wasting ink on thoughts that come and go, but it doesn't make me sad anymore. I've moved beyond petty regrets, but I wish for things to be different. Why? Because I'm a musician and a lyricist, and that's what I do. That's what I've always done."


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a separate addition to the series that describes the interior design of Alex’s London flat, since it didn’t fit in the main story, and yet I wanted to write it nevertheless.

If drawing a picture of his flat was absolutely necessary then, despite his best efforts, it would be most kindly described as “well-organised chaos”. Sometimes he stood in the middle of his living room and took a long look around just to be surprised, once again, by his indubitable abilities of collecting things, filling even the smallest vacant spaces with stuff that carried absolutely no practical use, and being perfectly satisfied with it. Alex could’ve denied being an obvious case of pointless hoarding, but his closet, bookshelves, walls and all available horizontal surfaces collectively proved otherwise.

It was a one-bedroom flat, not too big yet, apparently, spacious enough to fit his needs. In addition to collecting things, he also hated mess, being a naturally neat and orderly person, which meant that what could seem, at the first glance, as a complete shambles, was actually a result of hours of thorough planning.

Yes, his laptop, barely ever used, was covered by layers of old newspapers and magazines, by those were selected specifically, in case Alex wanted to re-read them again. And the entire wall, occupied by a gigantic bookcase, didn’t just spit out certain novels that took place beside it in carefully built piles; he preferred paperback editions to the hardcover ones, and it was the only rational way of separating them (or so he thought).

And, of course, the was an old, ragged, brown leather couch with half a dozen pillows and a thin folded blanket to keep it company; and a TV, to keep Alex company. And there were DVD’s of his favourite shows because, unlike most of the relatively young population of Earth, he hadn’t learned how to use Netflix. A few cups with traces of last night’s coffee or tea, usually both, the godforsaken piece of technology, buried under weight of paper, and a jar of cookies usually inhabited the small table between the sources of comfort and entertainment.

He always washed dishes after work. Well, more like after coming home, taking a long shower, changing clothes, making a couple of sandwiches, bringing them to the living room, seeing the dirty cups and whatever else he might have used, groaning, searching for reasons to avoid his duties, not finding any, sighing, going back to the kitchen with his hands full.

There was also an armchair, kept specifically for hours of reading and nothing else, and a floor lamp that, especially when the weather got stormy, blinked unpredictably, creating an atmosphere worth of a Poe’s story. And a couple of acoustic guitars in the opposite corner, the cleanest one, unburdened by decor and completely tangled in memories, more than enough to prevent them from feeling lonely.

And now it was time to add framed posters, a few photographs with his friends and family, an umbrella stand, a fluffy carpet, so good for walking barefoot, and a huge window with see-through green curtains that added a flair of mysteriousness to the room even on the sunniest of days, completed by souvenirs, tiny and almost invisible, nestling by the books and TV, here and there. Oh, and last but not least - a vinyl player with a small collection, only the most special and valuable ones, and that was it.

In comparison to that, the rest of the flat was almost empty, starting from an unbelievably microscopic hallway that was more like a poorly grown part of the living room, and ending with his bedroom with only a bed, a closet, a couple of bedside tables, a mirror and another fluffy carpet in it. Although, kitchen, as much as the size allowed, received more of Alex’s love, probably due to being the ultimate storage of one of life’s greatest pleasures - food. He even learned to cook a bit but wouldn’t dare to test his masterpieces on anyone, afraid of becoming an unwilling culprit of a food poisoning or something even worse.

The evenings, spent in the living room, sitting on a couch, watching a film or, maybe, sinking in another world opened by a good novel were quiet, peaceful and calm. And, in comparison to the craziness of his former lifestyle, it was something to cherish, and so he did.


	5. Chapter 5

From the gloomy, grey, wet pavements, lost in the mist, filled with the usual muffled hubbub of people living nearby, walking their dogs, tightening grips on leashes automatically, balancing on the edge of losing control, frowning and cursing the weather, to the cold, stormy blueness of the ocean, rumbling and washing over the lonely shores over and over again, everything was drowning in a milky white substance, thick enough to be cut with a knife.

He walked without a solid purpose, measuring the distance from one side of the empty beach to another, leaving almost invisible traces in the sand, soon to be destroyed by the waves. The fog that fell on this little town so suddenly and covered it with a soft, fleecy cloud, had turned the whole process of moving in any direction into a guessing game, lowering the visibility to minimum. Alex got as close to the water as he could and tried not to think about his surroundings, focused on steps and the monotone sound of tides, looking back and into himself, thinking about decisions that he made.

It appeared like everything was fine, on the surface. But brief glances weren't enough to build even the vaguest definition of a human personality, and even though his parents stepped back and accepted his choices, they still felt like something was wrong and knew their son well enough to not be satisfied with glimpses, preferring to observe Alex from a safe distance, but constantly and thoroughly.

Holidays were under a threat of being ruined before they were even given a chance of getting started, and that meant that he had to make a call, not just for them, but for his own unspoken doubts and desires. The man on the other side of the line sounded like someone wrapped in Christmas lights from head to toes, forcibly fed with sweets and absolutely exhausted by every aspect of his existence, and yet his greeting managed to have some optimism in it, like he still hoped to get through the celebrations alive.

"Hello?"

"Mr. Peters?"

"Yes. I'm sorry, just a moment..."

The noise, so terribly distracting in the first few seconds of their conversation, grew quieter, and Alex heard his interlocutor sigh with relief.

"Erm... Sorry again, it's quite a mess here. Christmas, you know. Who am I talking to, exactly?"

"Alex Turner. My mother told me about your call, and she can be very persistent when she wants to."

Yes, he could hear the guy panic in London all the way from up North. But when the logical parts of his brain finally won over, the first obvious reaction was suspiciousness.

"Is this some kind of a joke? Mr. Turner, if it's really you, I apologize, but I cannot exclude a possibility of this being a prank of one of my friends who know that I tried to contact you, and..."

"I'm sorry for interrupting but how exactly am I supposed to prove my identity to you, Mr. Peters? Do you, maybe, want me to sing you a song?"

"A song would be nice, actually... Oh. Shit. I shouldn't have said that. It's been a really long day, Mr. Turner. And, please, call me James."

"Alright, James. You can call me Alex. Now tell me more about that job offer, wouldn't you?"

He grew up on a windy, cold, fairly unwelcoming island and, even after finding much warmer lands, still came back here for comfort. Because all this was familiar, it was studied and explored, and had no surprises left in its bottomless pockets, or so Alex believed. And now it had given him another opportunity, something new, exciting, wonderful. Not a substitute for his previous career, but a leap of faith into the unknown, just like stepping into the sun out of a cold embrace of humid English haze.


	6. Chapter 6

As a celebrity he got used to giving interviews, answering the same questions, caused by a common lack of creativity, and trying, really trying to be interested in them, and failing each time. Even if he managed to find the right words to express a cheap parody on genuine enthusiasm, his face was always a few steps ahead, sabotaging his attempts. 

It was difficult to remain serious, and by the end of yet another conversation with a journalist Alex was internally breaking down. He was bored, annoyed, tired and miserable, and nothing could ever change that, and soon enough even the most outrageously unexpected questions were getting a yawn or a slightly raised eyebrow, at best.

He was full of it. People, waiting for him after the concerts, queuing up just to get a blurry photo with a tipsy man, a clumsy autograph and a forced smile, and he had to pay attention to them, not for their happiness, but for the sake of his own integrity. What was flattering at first eventually became routine, nauseatingly ordinary, to the point of making him sick at the very thought of being that person, that rockstar in a leather jacket singing about a girl that didn't exist.

It was easier to hide underneath a comfortable blanket of metaphors and vague hints than to admit that even a feeling like love could've gotten spoiled by constantly being stared at by millions of strangers, exploited, twisted, turned into a commercial product. Alex Turner was a commercial product, too, and it affected his way of thinking, his habits and tastes, changed his original personality.

He stopped and looked at the beauty of water, raging within itself, fierce, untamed. He stood on the pier for a few moments or hours, and watched all of his fears dissolve in the endless depths of it. He drowned on countless occasions before, yet always swam back out, always appeared on the shore, safe and sound. 

Alex covered a cigarette from the wind and lit it up carefully, inhaled the smoke and smiled. What he escaped was just a few steps away from him, absolute calm, eternal quiet, but he'd rather live in chaos of the world surrounding his ever so chaotic mind than make a jump into the abyss.

As frustrated and angry as he was, Alex didn't underestimate his capabilities of doing terrible things. Saved by a plane that took him home, that exhausted man wanted to be left alone. And this same person now went back towards everything worth fleeing from, right under the cruel, heartless eyes of human judgement.

He took a long deep breath and headed through the mist determinedly. There was someone expecting him in a small café by the beach, nervously sipping his tea and throwing worried glances at the front door. And making people wait wasn't very polite, after all.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To all of those who were waiting for another chapter - I'm sorry for the long wait but, as the second part of the trilogy is over, I don't know when the third one will be posted. The truth - I'm terribly preoccupied, torn between my day job and working on a new novel, and it's hard, and I can't give any promises. I hope you like this one, and I'll try to come back and finish the story as soon as I can. Thank you for reafing, guys, I love you!

The worst thing that could happen to him in case their conversation went sideways was disappointment. Technically, there was nothing at stake, and he could leave at any given moment, close the door and disappear again. As far as the public was concerned, he wasn't even in England, but on his annual trip to a closed medical facility in Switzerland, where his many addictions were taken care of. Or so the press stated most recently.

His family wasn't quite as comfortable with those rumours and allegations, though, and he had to calm them down from time to time. His friends? Well, Alex made sure to burn all the bridges and cut everybody off when he left. Tempted to come back, get in touch shortly after his writing became more or less decent, he stopped at the fringe of revealing himself and took a step in the opposite direction.

Even imagining the articles, interviews, photoshoots, the heights of absurdity they could reach, prevented Alex from ruining the quiet life that he'd just gotten used to. Which also meant that this guy was ought to propose him something extraordinary, otherwise their meeting was pointless, and a complete waste of time, and that'd be, well, disappointing. And it brought him to square one.

It was the same café that he left about an hour ago, but the waitress seemed more comfortable, relaxed and sure of her undeniable charms. Her doppelganger stood close to the entry, and Alex barely managed to avoid a collision, taking to the right just in time and steering towards a guy who sat in the corner. He looked tired, naturally, as well as most of the people in this town, as if the very air in it was different, suitable for a slower exploration of the world, yawning from dawn to dusk and giving in to the melancholy.

'James?'

A hand, frozen, expecting a response, and a lost gaze, sleepy, frustrated. A delayed reaction, supported by a protective laughter. Avoidance of the embarrassment. Genuine surprise.

'Oh, Mr. Turner! I'm sorry, Alex... You came! I didn't really...'

A handshake, the most common ritual of courtesy, finally completed. 

'I apologize for making you wait, James. It's one of my utterly bad habits, but it's too late for me to try and get rid of it now. I hope you enjoyed the coffee, it's quite good here.'

'Yes. Yes, thank you. I mean, it's okay, I don't mind the waiting, not at all.'

Alright, so Alex most certainly wasn't expected. He had settled on keeping it brief long before coming here, but now felt a bit guilty and decided to put some effort into loosening up. His communication skills weren't getting any better.

'So what is this all about, James? Truth be told, I was led here by curiosity and, in part, boredom. You haven't told me anything about the job over the phone, and I don't like walking around in the dark. May I receive some further information now?'

'Yes, yes, of course. The point is - I'm a music teacher. It's a school for talented kids in West London, and there's a vacant position. Honestly, we just cannot find any suitable candidate for it's a small class, and...'

'What is the subject?'

'Songwriting! Isn't it your specialty, Alex? These kids are passionate, and they need guidance, motivation, someone to explain how it works. And I thought of you right away, but... Rumour has it that you've got serious drug problems.'

'Yes. You've got to appreciate the freedom of speech. And the freedom of tattle.'

'Look, it's just an offer. If you were to agree, the courses would only begin in September. But I need your answer much sooner, otherwise my superior is going to be extremely pissed.'

'How soon?'

'In under a month.'

On the train back to London he almost fell asleep two or three times while listening to music. He thought about how his life changed in the past years, and how it could change again, if only he found the courage. Time had a property of slipping away, and there wasn't much of it left, and Alex was facing a difficult decision. A new start? But could he handle the pressure of being in every paper and magazine again? Another track ended, and the sea views were replaced by familiar roads and buildings of the capital. There was a lot to think about but, maybe, not today.


End file.
